Pack Mentality
by physixXx
Summary: Unable to bear life in Britain's wizarding world, Draco flees, being drawn to stormtattered Louisiana just days after Hurricane Katrina. Told in 7 Drabbles. ::NOW COMPLETE:: 4.1.06
1. Chapter 1

**1.**

It rained the night Draco Malfoy made it to Louisiana. He flew high above the thunder as lightning sliced the sky. The electricity filled him with a sense of life and purpose that Hogwarts and England and Death Eaters and even Harry Potter never could.

He felt power here; the power of God or Merlin or Mother Nature or any deity ever worshipped and exalted since time, interminable. When thunder tried to hide what the lightning saw, he could feel the energy dancing through every fibre of his being.

He didn't know what had drawn him to New Orleans. It certainly wasn't the tragedy that befell the city. After all, why would he care for plebeians? Potter was the 'hero', Draco was simply a spy.

But the Americans had come to help fight in the _Second Dark War_ and had accepted him in their ranks when the Order of the Phoenix would not. Even when they kissed, Harry Potter still kept one eye open fixedly on Draco, like a bad imitation of Mad-Eye Moody.

Did he feel he owed the Americans something? No, that certainly wasn't it: he had already saved the Vice President's son from a Death Eater-assassination attempt when he came to visit London. He had supplied them with information they used to help tip the scales to the Order's side. His treachery all but guaranteed Voldemort's fall – and that was for the benefit of the entire world.

No, Draco didn't 'owe' anyone. In fact, the Order, Britain, and the world, owed Draco. Nevertheless, years after the war, Draco had enough. He fled. Well, 'fled' is a strong word – a coward's word – and Draco was no coward. He was, quite simply, tired.

He touched down in 'Crescent City' just as the night sky cleared, but not before one final thunderous boom cracked the eerie quite. Like the arch-angel Gabriel's horn trumpeting the coming of the Four Horsemen, the thunder declared: 'Draco Malfoy has come to New Orleans.'


	2. Chapter 2

**2. **

They say that the area between _Gentilly Ridge_ and the Lake was swamp, not drained and developed until the mid and late 20th century. But you couldn't tell from looking at it now. It looked like a swamp, a quagmire of filth with pipes and pieces of automobiles sticking up from the water as if they were part of the natural habitat.

As bad as it looked, it smelt worse: like raw sewage, ammonia, and hopelessness. He saw stray animals reverting to their more instinctive pack-nature, scavenging for food, their ribs showing through flesh and fur and their eyes sad as a child's would be.

As Draco continued to walk, one of the shaggiest dogs turned to watch him as his pack continued on without him. Draco froze, wondering if the dogs had gone so wild that they would begin to attack humans. He gripped his wand, still in his trouser pocket, as the dog walked over to him, his head bowed and tail tucked between his legs.

With his tail wagging, he walked cautiously to Draco, sniffing at his exposed hand before nudging it. Draco understood the hint and began scratching between his ears. Draco knelt in front of the dog, petting his torso, and realizing (quite horribly) just how skinny the dog was. He choked on his words even as they escaped his lips.

"Why, aren't you a brave, little pet? I imagine you are quite hungry, aren't you?" he asked as he looked for a collar, some form of identification.

He found none.

"Well, can't have you following me without a name, can we?" he said, in a light voice.

As if the dog felt Draco's claim, his tail wagged faster, with wider breadth. Draco knew it was far too late to try and chase the stray away, now. He had never been allowed a pet growing up, but it was common sense that, once a stray animal picked up your scent and was shown kindness, they would be hard pressed to be separated from you.

The other dogs stopped, momentarily, watching the transaction before moving on, one less in their pack. They were used to this, Draco imagined; losing a pack-mate. They would have howled an honorary were the loss because of death. Instead, they simply watched, understood, turned and continued their hunt.

"Looks like your mates approve, yeah?" Draco said, bringing his face closer to the dog and allowing it to be licked. "Ok, enough of that – a Malfoy must remain dignified, after all," he said, in a far more commanding voice.

"I shall name you," he paused a moment, staring at the beast's brown wet, glossy eyes, "Dragon."

This was no show dog, nor was it pureblood. Its pedigree wasn't one of to be proud of. It was a kid's dog – a child's dog, the kind of mutt that young boys who aren't keen on raising the fiercest, meanest dog on the block falls in love with. He wondered where the child was and if he had survived the storm. He wondered how long the poor beast had been without his family before being picked up by his pack – his former pack. He wondered if dogs could cry as he wiped away what could have been dragon tears. His tears.


	3. Chapter 3

**3. **

At the ripe age of twenty-seven, Draco Malfoy had no idea why he came to New Orleans. But as soon as his foot touched the dirty remnants in the dark alley between abandoned pubs and nightclubs, Draco felt oddly comfortable.

It made sense, though. The Malfoy name came from France — Parisian royalty, in fact. When the Commoner-Uprising in the 18th Century hit Paris, the Malfoys took flight for their lives. Some made their way to Britain, of course, while others would tempt the fates in America.

Apparently, according to his mother, several of France's wizarding royalty had stumbled across the land that would eventually be known as New Orleans. This was some fifty years before the Uprising. But America was never considered an appropriate home for a royal family of distinguished blood and rearing. It was home to savages and criminals.

But the American Malfoys – who had long since changed their names to Malfaires – found success in America, especially in New Orleans, where their blood had intermingled with Muggles, Muggle-born, and even _Sèvis Gine_ priests who worshipped spirits and animals. Whereas the British Malfoys were revered by the darkest of wizarding circles and feared by the rest, the Malfaires were admired by most all Americans, magical or otherwise.

Politicians.

Scientists.

Teachers.

Doctors.

Actors.

In a room full of billionaires, you couldn't throw a stick without hitting a Malfaire, the daughter of a Malfaire or the lover of a Malfaire.

In simpler times, Draco would be envious.

But these weren't simple times.

Walking down_ Poydras Street_ with his dragon in tow, he had found a forsaken restaurant tucked away from the main road. The front doors and the walk-in freezer had been locked, preventing anyone from entering and taking its contents. But Draco wasn't 'anyone' – he was a wizard and neither door could resist a well-placed "_alohamora_". Magic further thawed and cooked the meats therein.

Dragon ate better than he had for weeks, almost taking a finger or three off of Draco when he handed him strips of turkey and chunks of beef. When they left the restaurant, Draco left a pile of cooked food in front of the door and masked it with a complex impromptu spell that hid it from the senses of man and insects, only to be smelt or seen by dogs and cats.

There was no one here, anyway, no humans, at least. But still, he figured it was a courtesy that Dragon would appreciate, were he able to comprehend such things.

Before they left the building, Draco heard the faint remnants of music. He realized that he had been hearing it – just barely – ever since he stepped foot on Louisiana soil. But now, it was louder, though only slightly. He looked around and saw a snow globe on the counter by the cashier's register.

Wandlessly, he magic'd the globe to him. When it touched his flesh, he felt warmth and heard the music more pronounced. The words "glass moon" was carved along the wooden base of the orb. For the first time, Draco truly felt the magic of the land around him...

... the magic of New Orleans.


	4. Chapter 4

**4. **

Draco was enamoured with Professor Snape, especially in his first year at Hogwarts.

He loved the fact that Snape was calculating and calm, cool bordering on cold. He was fascinated by the fact that he couldn't truly gauge Snape, despite having a keen ability to 'read' people that bordered on the uncanny. Of course, the one time he could read Snape like an open book was whenever Harry Potter was in the same room. And, anyone who hated Potter couldn't be all bad, right?

Before his sixth year, Draco entertained the notion of being a Hogwart's professor – or maybe somewhere cooler like Durmstrang. He even threatened a first year by holding him out of the fourth floor Charms' corridor window by his feet if he didn't copy down the Potion Master's first-day speech verbatim, complete with hand movements and marks to show where eyes narrowed and lips curled or twitched. He memorized every word and nuance of the speech until he could say it in his sleep.

That was before The Dark Mark came along and shattered those dreams.

It's no wonder one of the first buildings that Draco entered – that wasn't due to a necessity such as eating or going to the lav – would be school.

The one-story building in the devestated residential area _of Saint Bernard Parish_ was beyond derelict. Windows had been destroyed from the outside, and not by winds or trees. Doors were kicked out, and not by screaming frantic children. When Draco walked through classroom after classroom, he noticed – quite horribly – that televisions and computers and other electronics had been removed from the premise, but textbooks had not. There was more than a hint of asbestos in the rooms, as insulation hung from holes in the ceiling. It made Draco cough – cough like the first time he lit a fag or took a drag from a joint. Dragon waited for him outside, the olfactory assault undoubtedly worse for him.

Draco began casting cleaning spells, first. He followed up with air purification incantations and then started working on transfiguring loose rubble into drywall, concrete, and wood, patching up holes in the ceiling and the walls.

By the time Dragon felt comfortable entering the building, it was almost as if wind, rain, and looters never touched the place – as if it were just built yesterday. He found a comfortable spot on the floor of what was at one time the teacher's lounge, lying next to his master, who lay supine on the only couch left untouched by raiders and pillagers.

Draco turned on his side, looking down at the sleeping beast beside him. He reached down, scratching at the spot between the dog's shoulders that, despite their newfound friendship, he already knew was his favourite place to be scratched.

Dragon's tail raised and lowered, lazily before he succumbed to sleep. Draco smiled, approvingly, before he followed suit.


	5. Chapter 5

**5.**

"Draco!"

The voice was familiar. Draco stirred, but didn't wake. It was, after all, only a dream, right? He couldn't possible be here.

"Draco – call off your bloody dog!"

As the room came in focus, audibly, he heard Dragon's distinctive growl build up to a bark. When his eyes opened, he realised the voice came from the last person he wanted to see – which was also the first person he needed to see.

Harry Potter was in the room.

Draco sat up, rubbing sleep from his eyes. With a stretch and a yawn, the scene in front of him came to view. Dragon stood between he and Harry with his tail erect and stiff. Harry's wand was outstretched and pointing at the beast.

"Oh, calm down, Harry – the dog won't kill you."

"I can't fucking tell! Call him off, Draco!"

"Dragon – come!" Draco commanded, albeit softly.

Dragon's ears and tail fell as he looked back and forth between Harry and his master. He looked frightened, as if he had done something bad, until Draco patted a spot on the couch beside him, an invitation to sit. Dragon took the call, hopping on the couch and walking in a circle before collapsing next to Draco, laying his head in his lap. Draco scratched his 'spot' and smiled when he saw that Dragon was still eyeing Harry, warningly.

"Good boy," Draco said as he leaned in to kiss the dog's head.

"Why is it," Harry asked as he folded his arms defiantly over his chest, watching the scene in front of him, "when I wanted a puppy you would have no part of it? Come to The States, however, and one of the first things you do is find a dog."

"I didn't find the dog, Harry," Draco answered with a yawn and a stretch, "the dog found me."

"Where have you been?"

"Where did you find me?"

Ignoring the snide remark, Harry continues with his questioning, "I was so worried, Draco."

"I don't need you to be worried about me, Harry. I never have." But he did need Harry to worry about him, he always had and he always would. He hid a smile behind the shaggy mane of his four-legged companion as he whispered, "There's a good boy. Such good guard-dog, aren't you, Dragon? Yes, you are."

Draco knew that history repeats itself. But sitting there on the couch, with his dog in his lap and Harry standing over him with that look of relief etched on his face, he knew that he was falling in love with Harry all over again.

Draco looked up to see Harry leaning out into the hallway, looking around the walls and up to the ceiling.

"You... you did this?" he asked, softly. "All of it?"

"None other," Draco answered, with a hint of pride. 'Gloat to taste,' he thought. But this was something Draco didn't feel needed such prideful revelry.

"This is really good, Draco. You even hid your magical signature. Any reason for that? It would have been nice to be able to say you did this, y'know?"

"I didn't do it for recognition, Potter – or approval."

Harry's gaze turned quickly – unapologetically – to Draco as he admonished, "Don't call me that, Draco."

"Sorry," Draco said, turning his attention back to Dragon, "Old habits, you know?"

Harry's eyes narrowed, "It's been seven years since you called me that, last."

Another leer. "Well, history repeats itself, y'know?"

Harry clenches his fists at the sound of that familiar drawl and the sight of the half-cocked sneer on Draco's face.

"What are you trying to tell me, Draco?"

Draco's posture gives, as does his defiant expression.

"Nothing, Harry. I'm sorry."

"So...," Harry's voice softened as he stepped closer to the couch. He watched the dog's ears perked up. "Why did you then? Do all this, I mean."

"... I dunno ..."

The answer was honest and for the nonce that would be enough for Harry. He sat next to Draco on the couch. His hands fidgeted; he wasn't quite sure what to do with them. Draco answered the question for him by standing and walking out of the room.


	6. Chapter 6

**6.**

New Orleans' magic was in desperate need of cleansing and rejuvenation. Ever since the days of slavery, when the pain of slave life and cotton fields proved too much to bare, the music and chanting of the field slaves soothed their hurts and chased away – albeit temporarily – their ills. Once blues, and later jazz, was born, New Orleans' magic seemed to be tied inexplicably – and irrevocably – to the music of its denizens. With that music gone, the magic of New Orleans began to fade.

You can understand why the musicians would be the first to come home in swarms – and in swarms. Their home was calling out to them, begging them to return. And return they did.

Little more than a month after the flooding, musicians made their way back to the artistic hotspot of the city – the French Quarter. Draco was drawn there, too, feeling the energy call to him as it had from across the Atlantic. Followed by Harry and Dragon, Draco arrived just as the sun began to dip past the horizon. Even Harry couldn't deny the pull from the music that they heard on every corner and in the many pubs that dared to open, despite the lack of city dwellers. There were groups of musicians on corners, children running and playing and laughing. There was still an eerily vacant feeling about the city, made all-the-more evident by the many people walking down streets that had little to no cars on them. Still, the energy was there – the smell of magic being renewed and reborn, stronger and more vibrant than ever before.

The musicians sang of water and how it can both cleanse the soul and drown the body. They sang of wind and how it could lift you to the skies or carry you to your doom. They crooned of loss and defiance and victory and resolve. But mostly, they sang about New Orleans and how wonderful it was to be home.

Harry had a silly grin on his face, as if he were smashed from too much lager. He inhaled deeply, "Ahh! Listen to them sing the blues. Do you feel it, Draco?"

Draco smiled as he sat on the bench on the corner, pulling the turkey – wrapped in foil – from his backpack. Tearing off another piece of meat, he tossed it to Dragon, who seemed to have finally accepted Harry in their wayward pack. But Harry was too full of bustling energy to sit. He simply gawked at his surroundings, taking everything in.

"Man, if I didn't love London so much I could really live here, y'know? It's like... like..."

"We're a part of something greater than just ourselves," Draco answered.

As if some great puzzle was revealed and solved in the same breath, Harry's eyes lit. "Yes! Exactly! From the moment I apparated to Louisiana, I've felt this... _pull_. Now, I know it was pulling me here."

Abruptly, Draco announced, "We're leaving tomorrow."

Snapped out of his reverie, Harry turned to face Draco, his smile gone, "To London, you mean?" he asked, hopeful.

"No. We're going east a bit," Draco answered. After a beat, he clarified, "Me and Dragon, that is... you don't have to come."

Harry sat next to Draco, but didn't turn to face him. "Why east?" he asked.

"Not very far," Draco said. He watched as Dragon's ears jerked and twitched whenever he heard the voice of a young boy. And, whenever he saw a young, black boy, his head would lift from Draco's lap. Sometimes, he'd even stand alert if said boy wore dreads. But, inevitably, he'd lay back down with a sad, defeated look in his eyes. Draco had seen this more and more in the past month as the city filled with more residents.

"Something tells me – _New Orleans_ tells me – to go east," Draco continued, his eyes still fixed on the dog in his lap, "I think... I think..."

His eyes began to water. Harry didn't really know what was going on how to make everything better. He hated that feeling – that feeling of utter and complete helplessness.

"I'll go with if you want," he offered, humbly. He took Draco's hand in his. Draco let him. "If you think you'll need me, that is."

Draco sniffed, smiled, and squeezed Harry's hand. Never pulling his gaze from Dragon, he admitted, "I think I will."


	7. Chapter 7

**7. **

On the west bank of the Mississippi, eastward in New Orleans, rests the neighbourhood of Algiers. It's never been one of the richest burrows of the city and it was understandably one of the hardest hit once the levies broke and the water flooded the land. But, very few neighbourhoods had the pride that the Algiers residents had for their property and belongings. It was no surprise, then, that it would have been one of the first residential areas bustling with families trying to recoup and rebuild. Some homes seem as though it forgot there was ever a hurricane to begin with.

It's a hot afternoon when Draco arrived in the area, Harry and Dragon in tow. Fortunately, there is a cool breeze that whips across this suburb. Unfortunately, however, it brings with it the smell of weeks-old garbage as it whisked through the piles of trash, lined along the street and, at times, stacked high as a house.

"King!"

The sound came from far ahead. And, for Draco, there was nothing else in the world – no sound, no smell, nothing but the sight of Dragon, darting off to a black boy with dreads who reminded him of Lee Jordan. The boy ran from his yard into the middle of the street, knelt down, and held out his arms, stretching them wide in front of him, waiting. Draco's breath hitched deep in his throat as he watched the boy and the dog embrace. There was a happiness in the dog's eyes that could be seen even from the distance Draco stood.

"At least he'll be happy, Draco," Harry said, trying to be reassuring.

Draco didn't want to look at Harry at the moment. He knew he'd have a satiated smile on his face, as if all was well in the world and a great wrong had been righted. "Sod that!" Draco thought. He didn't want Dragon to be happy. He wanted Dragon to be happy with _him. _After all, Draco had been happy, with Harry and the dog, both loyal and comforting.

But now, Draco didn't want comfort. He wanted to rage – rage against the unfairness of it all. Hadn't _he_ been the one to save Dragon from an uncertainly fate? Hadn't _he_ been the one to keep Dragon fed and warm and dry and ... safe? And what had this bloke done for Dragon but abandon him?

"... dragon ..." was all Draco could whisper.

It was devoid of strength and conviction and it betrayed the calm and cool expression on his face. Long after Dragon had passed away, leaving his boy a saddened adult, the young, black boy would remember this day as the day that – as if by magic – his companion had defied the odds, survived a storm, and came home; their home.

As if by cue, Dragon – sorry, _King_ – turned to give Draco one last look – one last 'thank you'. His tail wagged, slowly with seeming calculation. Draco held up a hand, a faint wave goodbye. As if given permission, King turned away, bounding with his new – old – friend to go home with his new – old – pack.

They stood on the street in the neighbourhood of Algiers for what seemed to be an eternity, watching a dog and his boy frolic and play, tackling one another and rolling around haphazardly in the dirt. Laughs and barks bounced off the houses. After a moment, Draco leaned in closer to Harry, just a smidge, crossing his arms and hugging himself fiercely. He didn't even try to stop the tears from falling as the last of the barks had disappeared behind the door of a house.

He could hear the boy call out, "Mama – Mama! Look! King came back – King came home!"

Home.

Such a simple word, really.

Just four letters. But they suddenly seemed less... alien to him.

"Thanks for finding me, Harry."

"No problem, mate. Thanks for making it easy for me," he said with a smile, playfully bumping Draco's shoulders with his own.

"Harry?"

"Yes, Draco?"

"Can we go home, now?"

"… yes, Draco."

They turned to leave after a moment, one less in their pack.

"Harry…?"

"Yes…?"

"… you can have a puppy if you like."

•**fin•**


End file.
